He didn’t say anything in response, instead moving stealthily around the edge of her chair and seating himself on the ottoman that she had pushed to the side when she had sat down. She turned her head as he sat, her breath catching as she sat straight up and put her feet to the floor.
“What—what are you doing here?”
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and said, “I tried to stay away. But there are some things I must say.”
She shook her head, eyes wide. “If you’re caught…Benedick is in the other room! How did you get in?”
“Your brother let me in. He knows I’m here. And, I am afraid, Empress, that he is on my side.”
“You told him?” She was aghast.
“I did. You gave me little choice. Now, be quiet and listen, for I have much to say.”
Callie shook her head, not trusting herself to stand firm in her decision if he showered her with pretty words. “Gabriel—please don’t.”
“No. This is both of our lives you’re playing with now, Callie. I won’t have you making decisions without all the information.” She tucked her feet up under her and the image of her, curled into a little, sad ball, tugged at Gabriel’s heart. “You love me. Don’t you feel that you owe it to yourself to hear what I have to say on the matter?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and groaned in embarrassment, “Oh, God. Please don’t bring it up. I cannot believe I told you.”
He reached out and ran a finger down her cheek, he spoke in a deep, gravelly tone, “I shan’t let you take it back, you know.”
She opened her eyes, and the look in them was wide and clear and nearly stole his breath. “I don’t take it back.”
“Good,” he said, “Now listen to me.” He didn’t know where to begin, and so he spoke the words as they came. “My mother was very beautiful—dark hair, brilliant blue eyes, delicate features, like Juliana. She was barely older than Juliana when she left us—fled to the Continent to escape her family and her life here. My memories of her are vague, but I remember one thing with complete certainty. My father was mad for her.
“I can remember sneaking out of my bed to eavesdrop on their conversations late at night when I was small. On one particular evening, I heard the strangest noise coming from my father’s study, and I crept down the stairs, curious. The hallway was dark—it must have been very late—and the door to the study was ajar.”
He stopped, and Callie sat forward in her seat, a sense of dread coursing through her at the story, this critical memory. She waited for him to continue. She would have waited all night.
“I looked in, and I could see the graceful line of my mother’s back, so straight and unfeeling—the way she always was with Nick and me. She was standing at the center of the room in a perfectly pressed, unwrinkled gown of the palest lavender…” He paused, and spoke the next words with surprise, “It’s amazing how the details come so fresh so long after…” And then the story started up again.
“She was facing my father, who was kneeling at her feet—kneeling—both hands wrapped around one of hers, and he was crying.” The words were coming easier now, and Callie watched as his eyes glazed over, recounting the memory. “The sounds I had heard from above stairs were my father’s sobs. He was keening, begging her to stay. He pressed her cold, passionless hand to his cheek and professed his undying love, telling her that he loved her more than life, more than his sons, more than the world. He begged her to stay, repeating the words again and again, telling her again and again that he loved her, as though the words could stop her dispassionate glances, her cool responses to him, to her sons.
“She was gone the next morning. And so was he, in a sense.” He stopped, his mind stuck in the moment over twenty-five years earlier. “I swore two things that night. First, I would never eavesdrop again. And second, I would never become a victim of love. I started playing the piano that day…it was the only thing that could block out the sound of his sorrow.”
When he looked to Callie again, he noted the tears streaming silently down her cheeks, and his gaze cleared instantly. He reached out and took her face in his hands, brushing away the errant teardrops with his thumbs. “Oh, Callie, don’t cry.” He leaned in and kissed her softly, his lips warm and welcome against hers. Placing his forehead against hers, he smiled. “Don’t cry for me, Empress. I’m not worth it.”
“I’m not crying for you,” she said, placing her hand against his cheek. “I’m crying for that little boy who never had a chance to believe in love. And for your father, who obviously never experienced it either. Because that was infatuation, not love. Love isn’t one-sided and selfish. It is full and generous and life-altering in the best of ways. Love does not destroy, Gabriel. It creates.”
He considered her words and the emotion in them, her vehement belief in the emotion that he had been avoiding for his entire adult life. And he told her the truth. “I cannot promise you love, Callie. The part of me that could have…that might have been…has been closed off for so long. But what I can tell you is this…I will do my damnedest to be a kind and good and generous husband. I will work to give you the life you deserve. And if I have my way, you will never doubt how much I care for you.”
He came off the ottoman, onto his knees, and Callie could not help but see the parallel between that moment and the story he had told about his parents. “Please, Callie. Please, do me the very great honor of becoming my wife.” The words came on a fervent, poignant whisper, and Callie was lost. How could she deny him after all he had confessed? How could she deny herself?